DEIMOS
His efforts hadn’t mattered – a few instances laden between where he wasn’t scalded or scorned by the pinpricks of monsters, his eyes ghosting over the guild’s ramparts, the soft glow of luxere, the view, the promise, the conviction of their return imminent. Amongst the plucked feathers, the disassembled, bleeding contortions to his flying frame, credence prevailed, lungs inhaling, before they came for him, for Remi again. The alchemist’s words were a distant haze in his mind, too rattled as by the notions of the gremlins, the fiends, the demons scorching at his eyes, closing them, shaking his head, flickering a little in the sky –
Before descending, descending, descending, following Remi’s flightpath, plummeting in circular motions and maneuvers, attempting to rid himself of the beasts, of the burdens, of the pain circumventing his senses. The luxere were beatific things, and he couldn’t disturb them, choosing to arc off to the side, bleeding talons landing upon the ground with aches, with residual irritation and exasperation.
They really didn’t matter either, not when his eyes landed upon the body in Remi’s shifted arms, the golden prince battered, bruised, torn apart. He altered then too, shifting away from the herd’s hold, his presence not their preference, and following thereafter in the pervading silence, in the all-consuming anguish and grief; jaw clenched, throat swallowing down the bile, the choking, scratching nuances back into his wake. I can take him persisted through the Attuned clarity (no voice capable of bearing the weight), an offering: if he was too heavy, if it was too much, and turned to bang on the doors too, fists pounding on the threshold.
Before descending, descending, descending, following Remi’s flightpath, plummeting in circular motions and maneuvers, attempting to rid himself of the beasts, of the burdens, of the pain circumventing his senses. The luxere were beatific things, and he couldn’t disturb them, choosing to arc off to the side, bleeding talons landing upon the ground with aches, with residual irritation and exasperation.
They really didn’t matter either, not when his eyes landed upon the body in Remi’s shifted arms, the golden prince battered, bruised, torn apart. He altered then too, shifting away from the herd’s hold, his presence not their preference, and following thereafter in the pervading silence, in the all-consuming anguish and grief; jaw clenched, throat swallowing down the bile, the choking, scratching nuances back into his wake. I can take him persisted through the Attuned clarity (no voice capable of bearing the weight), an offering: if he was too heavy, if it was too much, and turned to bang on the doors too, fists pounding on the threshold.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
